


It's a Sad Song

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eurydice Eliot, Hadestown AU, M/M, Orpheus Q, this is a tragedy guys, warning: I'm not changing the ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-07-09 19:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19893325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: But we sing it anyway.In which Quentin and Eliot fall in love, but life isn't easy or fair, and seasons change.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is just the prologue and it is very short, so the next chapter will be out very very soon. Be warned that this will be sad. I'm telling you right now. We're in it together, guys.

I. **_Prologue_**

Enter Alice, messenger goddess, magician and human and monster—

“This story,” she tells you, an air of sadness around her, though her eyes glint an amused, otherworldly-blue, “goes exactly the way you expect it to.”

“I’m in this story, you’ll see, though I’m not always me—you’re in it, too, if you pay attention. It’s a tale you’ve heard before. It’s told in many ways, throughout time, and it ends the same way. This is the tragedy of a pair of lovers, fallen to their own human uncertainty—the fates and the gods guiding them along. It ends in heartbreak, every time I’ve told it.”

Alice crosses towards you. You can’t tell if she’s sorry about it—she is unreadable, as gods and goddesses often are.

“Well, who knows? Maybe it’ll turn out well, just this once. Maybe the gods will be kinder, more forgiving—maybe the lovers will make it through this time. Maybe you alone will see the version of the story that has a happy ending. We can hope and dream, after all, can’t we? We can always hope.”

The inhuman blue glint in her eye, the one that looks near cruel, fades for a moment, leaving behind a wide sky-blue gaze. You don’t doubt it anymore—her sincerity. She’s looking at you with kind sympathy, knowing sadness behind it.

“You can hope, and I’ll hope right along with you. But I have to warn you—this story goes the way you expect it to. Every time.”

And this is where the story begins. 


	2. Any way the wind blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start out happy, don't they?

II. **_Any way the wind blows_**

There’s a place along the railroad track to the Underworld. A town with a name and a history. The train rides through twice a year, and you can always tell why. The seasons change in tangible ways, in this place. You can hear the train rolling in with the first warm breeze, leaving again when the last leaf falls.

It’s a beautiful place, despite its faults. The moon is bright and the river runs just outside of town, beside a clearing where the parties happen in the summertime. And if we’re telling the story right, we could say that _once upon a time, don’t ask where or when_ —

There were gods and men, and there was love and beauty and tragedy.

For a while, spring came late and autumn came early, in this town with a name and history. Around that time, the Fates circled this town, three young women who followed those with especially interesting destinies. Whispering in ears, tugging at hands, watching with curious eyes.

There was Fen, who spun the thread. Kady, who measured it. And Margo, with the scissors to cut the thread when the story came to an end.

You might notice them speaking to you, notice them circling you and whispering things—but you wouldn’t necessarily remember. They’re there, nearby, coaxing people onto the garden path, leading them along. Nudging them towards where they belong. They don’t force destiny, merely persuade it. That’s the thing about the Fates: they never tell you anything you’re not already trying to hear.

And in this time of gods and men, there was a story that the Fates had been drawn to. A story of a pair of lovers, coming together and unraveling.

Quentin Coldwater was a lot of things. Brown-eyed boy with his heart on his sleeve—he was kind and gentle, good in a way that men so rarely are. His official job was a repairman—nothing big. He’d fix trinkets, mostly. People came to him with broken cups and broken plates and broken hearts, and when he fixed things, you could hardly tell they’d ever been broken.

It was well known in town that it wasn’t hard to get Quentin to fix something for free. Men worse than him would send in their children, instructing them to claim that the mug or toy had been a gift from their dear departed grandmother. Quentin, every time, with sympathy and love in his eyes, would repair these and offer them back at no charge.

Whether he knew that people were taking advantage of his gentle soul was up for debate. He was not stupid, though he was optimistic—perhaps he knew and did it anyway, because he was kind. Perhaps he believed the best in everyone that came around, and trusted them at their word. Perhaps he stubbornly refused to let people take away his hope, his trust, and as a result, he allowed people to con him into free labor.

Regardless, his official job was not all that he was. He spent much of his time out of the repair shop, doing magic tricks for anyone who wanted to be dazzled for a few moments a day. Suspend your disbelief, and Quentin can show you how flowers appear in midair, how coins vanish and appear in your hands _(you can keep that one, he tells you with a wink),_ how cards shuffled can still turn up in perfect order.

Quentin Coldwater was a lot of things. He could make you believe in magic. He could make you see how the world could be, in spite of the way that it was. His heart was as cracked and battered as anyone else’s—he’d had his share of darkness in his life already. But he was honest and he was brave, kind through it all.

Eliot Waugh was a mystery, everywhere he went. He’d rolled in one day with the air of someone whose existence was far grander than this town, than this life. Rumors flew about where he’d come from—maybe he was royalty in disguise, or the bastard son of a Lord. Maybe he was estranged from his aristocratic family, maybe there was some scandal he had to flee from.

Eliot was a mystery, an intrigue of the town. He wouldn’t answer questions directly. He simply threw a careless smile and let everyone believe what they wanted.

The truth was sadder and closer to home. Eliot Waugh had grown up on a farm, not too far away. Times were hard there. The farm had been struggling for years, and his family simply didn’t have the means to feed all of their children.

And so, Eliot, caring deeply for his siblings, was the one who ventured away. He couldn’t bring himself to eat any of what little food they’d had, knowing that his siblings were hungry.

Maybe the reason Eliot didn’t offer the truth to the town was that it was simply too painful to discuss. Maybe he felt as though reinventing himself would make the transition easier. Or maybe he just enjoyed the air of sophistication and intrigue, maybe he enjoyed the way people stared in awe sometimes.

Who can say for sure?

In any case, he never did see his siblings again. They all survived, and eventually, the family left the farm to move towards better prospects. Maybe they found their fortune elsewhere. Maybe Eliot’s siblings really _did_ become new money aristocrats.

Eliot Waugh’s destiny was elsewhere, and the Fates spent much of their time circling him.

He had never really intended to stay in this town.

He moved from place to place as the seasons changed, following whatever he could to keep some money in his pocket and some food in his stomach. The wind would blow through towns and carry Eliot right along with it, searching for something more in the next place. Eliot was used to being on his own.

He was near ready to leave this place, having limited resources and not much available work. The Fates—and the town magician—had other things in mind.

“Stay an extra day,” Margo coaxed, both heard and unheard. “You never know what an extra day could bring.”

Here’s what that one extra day brought: one stop closer to the path this story takes.

Quentin nearly tripped over himself seeing the stranger in town for the first time. This tall, beautiful stranger, with distant hazel eyes. Quentin was not one to hide or push away his feelings. He didn’t necessarily believe in love at first sight—but hey, there was a first time for everything.

And today just might be the day that made him believe.

At the very least, he believed that you could see someone and know that they were going to become important to you. That they had a place in the course of your life, that to not know them would make the world a little bit emptier.

He was so caught up in the way he’d lost his breath that he almost missed it when Eliot breezily strode past him.

He practically scrambled after him.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” Quentin said, the words coming out just a little too quickly.

Eliot paused, turning. He looked Quentin up and down, considering. “You wouldn’t have,” he replied.

“You from out of town?”

“You could say that.”

“And what would you say?”

“I’d say I’m leaving town, too.” He started to turn.

“Where you headed?” Quentin asked before Eliot could walk away.

Eliot smiled. “Any way the wind blows.”

He started to walk away again, but Quentin spoke, moving towards him a little.

“The wind blows here.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Why don’t you stick around a while?”

“What’s there for me here?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

Eliot glanced back at Quentin, ready to make a snarky comment about that pickup line. But Quentin’s eyes were wide and sincere, like he really meant it. _Why_ don’t _you stick around, see if there’s something for you? Why_ don’t _you find out if the world will be kind to you here?_

“I never stay in one place long,” Eliot said, apprehension in his voice.

“First time for everything,” Quentin replied.

“I suppose.”

Quentin stepped forward, offering a deck of cards. “Pick one,” he said.

Eliot raised an eyebrow, but he complied. The Jack of Clubs stared back at him.

“Put it in your pocket,” Quentin instructed.

Eliot did so, and Quentin shuffled his deck with a few flourishing tricks, his fingers moving quick and steady. He finished straightening his deck, delighted at the way Eliot watched his hands.

“Now, I’ll be honest,” Quentin said casually. “I don’t know what card you drew. But I bet if you check, you’ll have the Ace of Hearts in your pocket.”

Eliot rolled his eyes, but when he pulled the card out, Quentin was right.

He narrowed his eyes. “How did you do that?”

Quentin shrugged. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“How very enigmatic of you.”

He waved it off when Eliot tried to hand the card back. “Keep it,” he said. He pulled the Ace of Hearts out of his own pocket, flashing it to Eliot before sliding it in the middle of the deck. “I’ve got a full deck here.”

“Seriously, I have to know,” Eliot said, glancing down at the card in his hand to double check that he’d seen it right.

“Magic,” Quentin replied with a grin.

“Magic,” Eliot repeated flatly. “That a reason to stick around?”

“Could be,” Quentin said. “If you let it.”

Eliot’s lips quirked up in a slight smile. He didn’t know what to make of Quentin—but there was a part of him that wanted to figure it out. “What else you got?”

Quentin’s eyes widened, caught off guard. “Well, um, I—uh…”

Eliot laughed, taking pity. “Relax. What’s your name?”

“Quentin. Um, Coldwater.”

“I’m Eliot.”

“You know, I do have another magic trick.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Wanna see it?”

“Why not?”

With that, Quentin appeared to pull a flower out of thin air, offering it to Eliot.

Eliot raised an eyebrow as he took it, turning it gently in his hand to look at the red petals. He didn’t bother covering the smile that grew.

“Got a lot of tricks up your sleeve?”

“You could say that.”

“And what would you say?”

“I’d just say that some of us still believe in real magic.”

“Real magic, hm?” Eliot smiled.

A warm breeze encircled them.

Quentin’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Feel that? It’s spring.”

“It’s late.” Eliot looked around, feeling the season change against his skin. It had been a long winter. Every winter was long when you were hungry and alone.

“But it’s here now.”

Eliot glanced down, feeling the warmth of the air in his heart. “So it is,” he said, his voice soft.


	3. The world we dream about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's summer, everyone.

III. ** _The world we dream about_**

The winds _had_ changed, as they always do. Spring had come at long last—a quick, sudden spring, giving way to summer fast. The Queen of the Underworld had come to walk in the sun, bringing the warmth and the flowers with her. She stayed in this town with a name and a history, in this town with the river and the clearing.

Lady Julia had a strained relationship with her husband, the King of Hades—it hadn’t always been that way. They were friends, too, once. Their love song was a bittersweet melody, the song of gods and goddesses who loved and lived apart. The King spent all his days in the Underworld and the Queen spent half the year up above. The problem arose when time went on, as it will, and the King wanted more than Lady Julia could give. King Penny worshipped her, heart and body and soul, with everything he was—and that, in the end, was the tension.

So spring came late and fall came early, as the King clung to the winter time, and the Queen’s heart got colder the longer she spent away from the sun. 

She relished the time she got to spend in the land of the living—everyone warm and bright and so _alive._ The world sparkled for her, and she gave gifts to everyone who let her.

The summer was a time for parties and shared food and wine, so much wine. Everyone had _enough,_ and life felt worth living.

The Fates heard the train first, but Quentin wasn’t far behind.

“She’s here,” Kady told the town.

“Took her long enough,” Margo grumbled.

The train came to a stop at the station just outside of town, people gathered around to greet the person they knew had arrived. Lady Julia hopped off the train, breathing in the fresh air deeply. Flowers grew at her feet as she stepped toward the crowd, suitcase in hand.

She never saw what the world was like when it was cold and damp and harsh. She knew only of spring and summer, of the seasons she owned. With the warm air, she brought wine and nectar and fruit. She breathed life into the world, and the world breathed life back to her.

“Lady Julia!” Fen called out first and the other Fates followed.

“Did you miss me?” Julia said to the crowd with a smile.

“Did we ever,” Quentin said, stepping forward to greet her.

Julia offered a quick hug, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Quentin Coldwater, as I live and breathe. You got a magic trick for me?”

“Anything for you,” he said, pulling a coin from the air and handing it to her.

She laughed, taking it. “I know how you did that one.”

“Of course you do.”

She flipped the coin and caught it, handing it back to him.

“Well. Let’s get this season started, shall we?”

It was like the world let out a collective breath—the harsh cold had broken. The winds had changed.

And so the celebrations began.

“To the patroness of all of this, Julia!” Quentin called, raising his glass. “She’s finally here—Our Lady of the Tree, Goddess of Spring, _Queen_ of the Underworld.”

“Who says times are hard?” Julia said, clinking her glass against Quentin’s. She stood up on the table, spreading her arms. “It’s summer, everyone—let’s enjoy it while we can!”

There was a cheer in the crowd as everyone drank, enjoying the warm air in the starlight and the firelight.

Eliot stretched out, leaning against a tree by the edge of the clearing, his cup full of wine. He gazed at the fruit laid out on the tables, the excess enjoyed by the town. The summer was a beautiful one—all sunlight and fireflies and peaches.

“To the world we dream about and the one we live in now,” Quentin said to the crowd, a little quieter. His bright eyes met Eliot’s and he smiled.

And Eliot, feeling warm from the sun, feeling softer than ever—he couldn’t help but smile back.

There was something about this place, about this man—

Eliot didn’t want to follow the wind this time. The world was brighter than it had ever been. If he let himself get caught up in the festivities and the beauty, he could forget how cold and dark his life had been. He could forget how _alone_ he’d been.

Quentin had that effect. Beautiful, and kind, and open—Quentin could make Eliot believe that the world was a kind place, full of hope and wonder and maybe even magic.

And so Eliot did something he hadn’t done before.

He stayed.

And the summer was hot and bright and full. Laughter and wine and late nights.

Quentin doing magic tricks by the fire, Eliot making increasingly complicated cocktails when the wine was boring.

Every passing day, Eliot felt like he could breathe a little easier. There was just something about Quentin that was so wholly different from anyone he’d ever known before. It felt like they’d known each other forever, like they’d lived a lifetime by each other’s side. Quentin made him feel comfortable and safe—

And it was all sort of beautiful. It really was.

June gave way to July. Eliot showed up at Quentin’s shop often, and Quentin would close early, not thinking about lost wages or missed hours. Not thinking about mendings at all. Really, only thinking about Eliot.

Times weren’t as hard as they could have been that summer, in any case. The world was bright and full of possibility.

Some of the celebrations had gotten less rowdy. They were lazier as the days went long. Less dancing, more lounging. Still plenty of wine.

One night, Eliot and Quentin were apart from the crowd, a little ways into the treeline. They could still see the clearing from where they sat, and they could still see the stars through the leaves and branches.

They’d set up a blanket, surrounded by a few lanterns.

It was peaceful—crickets and moonlight and a gentle breeze.

Eliot let out a content sigh, gazing through the trees.

“I’m happy you stayed,” Quentin said, trying to fill the words with all the meaning.

Eliot glanced over at him. “Me too, actually.” He raised his wine glass. “To new experiences.”

Quentin smiled, and they both drank. Eliot looked at Quentin out of the corner of his eyes—with his long dark eye lashes and his ever-readable expression. He was… something else.

Quentin frowned a little, setting his glass down. “Hey—” he started.

“Hm?”

“I—um…” Their eyes connected briefly, with a charge that Eliot couldn’t quite put a finger on.

And then Quentin leaned up, kissing him quick.

He pulled away before Eliot could really react, just sort of smiling. His eyes bright and unafraid.

Surprised, and pleased, and frankly a little confused—Eliot gazed back at him for a few moments before reaching over to touch his hand. He slid his palm over Quentin’s neck, leaning in slowly. Their lips met, and Eliot closed his eyes, and it felt…

_Right._

Quentin kissed him back, with warmth and tenderness, leaning up and tangling his fingers in Eliot’s hair. There was something so unnamable, something so perfect in the moment—the warm breeze, the starlight, Eliot and Quentin moving closer and closer together until they couldn’t anymore.

And Eliot was… happy.

He didn’t want the winds to change. He wanted this moment forever. Nothing needed to change. 

He wanted it to always be like _this._

_Tell me it’ll always be like this—_

The words were practically on his tongue. Precipitously romantic. Too open, too bare. And yet he _wanted_ to say them—in this warmth, in this moonlight, he truly wanted to.

He didn’t say them. His mouth couldn’t form the words.

They went on like this a while—

Fresh fruit and wine and calm days in the sun. It felt like summer would last forever, for a while there. The season was kind and it seemed as though happiness and beauty was just within the world’s grasp. Like the starlight was reaching down through the warmth and offering a hand to anyone who wanted to fly.

Eliot and Quentin, for their part, spent much of their time together. It was a love song they were living.

“Quentin, all I’ve ever known is how to be alone,” Eliot confessed one late summer night in a low voice.

Quentin, ever good at mending, slipped his hand into Eliot’s and it felt like things made a little more sense.

“My life has never worked, not like this.” Eliot was surprised at his own honesty—but something about Quentin just made him want to crack open his heart and offer it.

Quentin leaned into him a little, their shoulders pressed together. “You know, I—I used to, um. Have this thing I couldn’t shake. Where I felt like… If nothing was ever not gonna be pointless, yknow, why go on?”

Quentin ran his tongue along his bottom lip, his brow furrowed and his eyes downcast. The darkness in his life had always been there—poor, sweet Quentin, he found his way back to sadness often.

“I guess I’m… Well, what I’m trying to say, I mean.” Quentin looked up at Eliot with a warm, steady gaze, and Eliot glanced away, feeling overwhelmed. “I’m happy, you know? With this. I’m happy with _you_.”

Eliot had held his own for so long. He’d locked himself away, in a lot of ways. Fiercely, stubbornly independent, he didn’t even know how lonely and cold he was. And then came this place, this beautiful place, this _season—_ and Quentin.

“I love you,” Quentin said. Almost suddenly. Like it was simple. Like is was easy.

Eliot connected their gazes again, startled.

“I love you, too,” he said, reverently.

And as they kissed and held each other, in that late summer warmth, Eliot let himself forget how dark the world could get.


	4. Suddenly, nothing is as it was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seasons change.

IV. **_Suddenly, nothing is as it was_**

Leaves fell, and brisk autumn air chilled. Summer was short, and summer was gone—fall had come early and fast. The damp air and the shifting winds brought with them the sound of an approaching train. And everyone knew what that meant.

The flowers that grew at Julia’s feet had started to wilt away. She rolled her eyes at the sound of the train, irritation in her blood. “That was _not_ six months.”

The town gathered, Quentin hanging near Julia.

“We’ll see you soon,” he said.

“Not soon enough,” she replied.

There was a fascination with the train—the train that came and left when it was needed, no more, no less. You couldn’t buy a ticket. You were given one, or you were pulled onto the train regardless.

Julia knew what was at the other end.

The Underworld—the home she shared with her husband.

As the train rolled up, slowing to a halt with a screech of metal on metal, the world held its breath. Everyone clung to that last lungful of warm air—who knew when the peace would come back?

Julia approached the train with a tense jaw and a hand clenched around the handle of her suitcase. “You’re early,” she said briskly.

King Penny stepped off the train, tall, in a crisp suit. His face betrayed nothing. “I missed you,” he said simply.

Julia shook her hair back with a short sigh. Their eyes connected, and it was like they were having a staring contest. Daring the other to blink first.

Eliot stared with a kind of unnamable interest—at this tall, well-dressed man, the power he exuded. The train he controlled, the steadiness of his eyes. There was something about him that made it hard to look away. That made it hard to focus.

“He’s the King of the Underworld,” Margo whispered in Eliot’s ear. “Rich beyond belief. Never wanting anything. Can you imagine it?”

“And the love of his life is going back tonight—” Fen added. “Only alone half the year, isn’t that right?”

“Gold, money, riches—warmth, all the time,” Margo went on. “Fuck, I’d die to get there.”

Kady laughed. “You’d have to.”

“Kind of makes you wonder how it feels,” Fen said, smiling kindly at Eliot. “Doesn’t it?”

Both hearing them and not hearing them, Eliot gazed at the train, wondering.

 _Huh._ It was an interesting notion, anyway. Something to ponder. Something to… imagine.

A life like that—you’d be set, right? You’d be safe. You’d never be cold or hungry again.

The Fates never told you anything you weren’t already looking to hear.

Eliot tried to push the idea out of his mind—what did it matter? His life was _working._ Things were good. And it would always be like this—or, it _felt_ like it would always be like this. Quentin made it feel that way. This place, it was _different_ than the other places Eliot had gone. Everything was different.

The idea took root in the back of his mind—a subtle background noise. An imagined life. King of the Underworld.

Kind of makes you wonder how it feels.

To never want.

The idea was quiet enough—Eliot could ignore it. He barely noticed it at all.

But it was there. Just enough.

And the winds were changing.

_The King and Queen of the Underworld traveled home together in a tense silence._

_The distance and disconnect between them came from how they’d both forgotten the song of their love. They’d each forgotten the reasons they’d loved each other from the beginning. It was complicated—to remember the days of warmth and light._

_Immortal beings have that conflict—time is fast and time is slow and they forget the important things. Penny and Julia had once been as young and in love as dear Quentin and Eliot, though those feelings were inaccessible to them as they sat across from one another in the sway of the train._

The carefree summer had ended, truly ended. With it, the warmth and sugar sweet taste of peaches. The taste of anything, really. The fruit was gone; the wine was gone. Eliot could feel the darkness and the cold closing around them.

Quentin could see only the sunrises.

Eliot could feel the fear creeping in—Quentin’s optimism was not a comfort. The storm had not yet started, but Eliot could feel it on the horizon. He knew how the foreboding air felt in the days and weeks before disaster. He knew what the anticipation of the fall felt like.

He wanted to prepare, he wanted to trust that they would be sheltered.

He kept one eye on the sky those days, waiting, holding his breath.

Quentin, meanwhile, continued his mendings and his magic tricks. They were started to feel more and more like tricks.

Eliot had almost started to believe in real magic that summer.

But summer was over.

_King Penny had loved Lady Julia for a long time—an eternity, for some of us._

_His existence was a complicated one. In some ways, he was a prisoner of the Underworld. In other ways, he was the King of it. He couldn’t truly escape it anymore than the souls he housed there._

_Every year, to Julia, it felt like she got to walk in the sun. Every year, to Penny, it felt like he lost her. The time he spent in the Underworld, he often dreamt of ways that Julia could stay longer. Ways to make sure he would be less alone._

_He tried his best, King Penny. He wanted to build the world for Julia._

_His love, much like the world he built, was off-kilter. Not the kind of love that made springtime warm, or the kind of love that brought starlight to winter nights._

_He worshipped Julia in ways that made him forget she was more than what she was to him._

Eliot worked tending the bar of the town tavern, but he worked for tips. And this time of year, people simply didn’t have the money to buy drinks, let alone tip the man serving them. So Eliot came home with pennies at best, working only out of the desperation for _anything_ at a certain point.

And Quentin, kind as ever, was still letting people coax him into repairing things for free. Maybe even more so than usual, because times were hard for everyone. And Quentin was generous.

Quentin’s generosity would not find firewood, and Quentin’s warmth would not light it. Times were hard for everyone, and that included Quentin and Eliot. The home they shared was not full of wine and fruit, the way it had been when they’d made it together at the end of summer.

There was an emptiness in their home. There was an emptiness in the world.

Eliot feared the worst. He anticipated it.

_The Underworld had never been a bright, beautiful place, but it wasn’t always like this. There was never as much color there as there was in the spring flowers, but there was enough. It had been a place of rest, once. Rest and gentleness. The dead deserved peace._

_It was different now, though. In ways that Julia wouldn’t have imagined._

_“What is this?” Julia said, looking around at the changes—_

_At the gray, tilted changes—_

_“A gift for you,” Penny said, emptier than his usual tone._

_Everything felt more devoid of life than even in the Underworld._

_Julia looked around—what in the hell had Penny done?_

“You didn’t grow up the way I did, Q, you don’t _get_ it,” Eliot insisted, trying not to sigh. Quentin, bright-eyed and optimistic—always so willing to believe that good things were coming, simply because they deserved them.

“We’ll be fine,” Quentin said, seeming genuinely confused. “We’ll figure it out, we always do.”

Eliot half-laughed. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Eliot, I don’t understand why you’re mad.”

“Do you not _get_ that we have nothing right now?” Eliot said, gesturing. “No food. No money. No warmth. How are we supposed to live?”

“We’ve got everything we need,” Quentin said gently, stepping forward a little.

Eliot moved away. “We don’t. We _don’t!”_

_“If you think I’d want this—” Julia snapped, “then you don’t know me at all.”_

_“Julia, love, I worship you—”_

_“And yet, somehow, you don’t know a thing about me. Tell me, my King, did you truly believe that this—this stifling, airless place—"_

_“Just listen to me—”_

_“No! No. You don’t get to make my decisions for me.”_

_Penny spread his arms. “Well, I’m sorry, I can’t help loving you. Fucking deal.”_

At least he almost sounded like himself again for a moment—

_Julia scoffed. “You think this is about love? No, no—Penny, this is about you and it always has been.”_

_“That is not fair—”_

_“Oh, you want to talk about fair now?”_

There was no sheltering from the wind those days.

Quentin found sadness again and sadness found Quentin, and the nights were long. Repairing anything took more out of Quentin than he wanted to acknowledge—he didn’t want to face the storm outside, the cold that lingered on his skin. The world did not feel kind.

Meanwhile, the tips Eliot worked for dwindled to almost nothing. He made himself drinks as he waited alone in the tavern those cold nights. The world was not full of life the way it had been that summer. Eliot was cold; everyone was cold.

Winter had come early, and without pity. Harsh storms and rising winds—rain soaked the firewood.

_“What have you turned into?” Julia said, disdain filling her voice. “This soulless prison, this gray world—you’re empty, don’t you see that? Did you think I’d be impressed?”_

_“It’s a collection of knowledge, I made it for you—” Penny was genuinely confused, and Julia scoffed. “I stand by what I’ve made—”_

_“I don’t even know you anymore. You’re not the man I fell in love with.”_

_“That man was young and angry and—”_

_“And passionate and kind. This? This is worthless, look at what you’re doing here. Hoarding knowledge… You’ve imprisoned people, you’ve taken all the color away.”_

_“You want color? Find it in the books.”_

Caught in the worst storm of the season so far, Eliot couldn’t find his way back home in time. He got lost in the dark and the cold, dizzy with hunger and feeling empty.

The summer felt a million miles away.

“Hey,” a voice came from the wind. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting out the storm,” Eliot replied, turning to see where the voice was coming from.

His skin prickled with apprehension when he saw the figure in the dark, the man who’d stepped off the train and coaxed Julia and summer away from the world.

“What’s it to you?” Eliot asked.

King Penny shrugged.

“You could die out here, you know.”

“Thanks for that,” Eliot said dryly.

Penny tilted his head, sizing Eliot up slowly.

“Can I help you?” Eliot was unnerved by Penny’s steady, cold gaze. It felt like Penny could see right through him.

“No,” Penny said. “But maybe I can help you.”

Eliot scoffed, starting to turn away, but he felt a prickle of curiosity. The beginning of a hesitation. This was the man who never wanted, after all, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this the man that Eliot had seen step off the train like he could run the world?

“How?” Eliot said slowly.

Penny sighed a little, like even being here was already a favor. “Look, man. You don’t have to waste away out here. You’re with that magician, right?”

Eliot pressed his lips together. He was pretty sure the King of the Underworld already knew the answer to that, if he was asking.

“Magic isn’t real,” Penny said. “He can’t save you from all of this.”

It wasn’t like this was new information—Eliot had always known what the world was. The magic he’d experienced that summer felt fleeting now.

Hearing it out loud still felt like he was being hollowed out.

“Yeah, well,” Eliot starting, trying for careless. “What else is new?”

“Look, I’m a busy man. And I can’t stay long.” Penny glanced towards the sky. “Storm’s only getting worse, you know.”

The wind howled, as though in response. And Eliot was cold, and he was hungry—and he was _frustrated._

“You could come with me,” Penny suggested lightly. “Fly south for the winter, y’know?”

Eliot felt himself moving almost automatically, taking a step towards Penny—

Wordlessly, Penny held something out to him.

Eliot took it in both hands, carefully, studying it with slight reverence—

Like some kind of Metrocard—

A ticket to the Underworld.

_It was an interesting notion, anyway. Something to ponder. Something to… imagine._

_A life like that—you’d be set, right? You’d be safe. You’d never be cold or hungry again._

His heart tugged for a moment, towards the town, towards Quentin. He thought of Quentin’s smile, that smile he hadn’t seen in a while—he thought of their first kiss, in the warm starlight, the gentle summer breeze. He thought of flowers.

But Quentin wasn’t here.

_Nothing is as it was—wasn’t it going to be the two of us?_

Winter was hard, and dark—the sun felt further away than ever. And all Eliot could think of was those seasons on the farm, those seasons when his whole family went to sleep hungry and afraid, constantly unsure of what the morning might bring.

Eliot didn’t want to be back in that place. He didn’t want to be back in that life where survival was so uncertain, where living was a distant dream. Every day got harder, every breath more painful. The agony of knowing that there was nothing you could do but wait for the first breath of spring, that season that held out longer every year, letting the winter bite in to April and May.

Here was the truth of it: Eliot was afraid. He was afraid, and it is a human thing, to run away when one is afraid.

The Fates were there, too, ready to whisper what he so desperately wanted to hear, the justification he craved—

“I mean. To hell with it, right?” Kady said.

“The chips are down, El,” Margo murmured. “What are you gonna do?”

“You thought there was nothing for you here,” Fen added lightly. “Has anything really changed?”

“He just doesn’t get it,” Kady said. “Heart in the stars, he really believes life is fair. But _you_ know better.”

“And how can you reconcile that?” Fen said, her voice kind and regretful.

“Life ain’t fair,” Margo scoffed. “Or easy. You’ve always known you could only _really_ count on yourself.”

“Q, he doesn’t _get_ it, alright?” Kady reiterated, crossing her arms as she circled. “So fucking naïve—he’s never been starving to death. Not like you.”

“The hardship you’ve known—” Fen said.

“You wanna go _back_ to that?” Margo said.

 _No,_ Eliot thought, _I can’t, I can’t go back—_

What would it be like, to have a soft place to land? To lie down forever?

Maybe—

Maybe—

He’d find out.

The ticket felt heavy in his hand.


	5. Take the long way down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the intermission.

V. _**Take**_ ** _the long way down_**

_Quentin, what am I supposed to do?_

Eliot looked back—hesitation in his heart. He found himself wishing for bravery, wishing for strength. But he was so afraid. Hungry and lost and cold. In this dark world.

His heart ached to stay. The thread of fate that connected him to Quentin pulled at him, but it felt weak and frayed. He couldn’t bring himself to follow it home. He couldn’t bring himself to turn away from the promise of—

The promise of—

Well. The promise of the end to the pain of hunger. The loneliness of the cold.

The end of the fear of going _back,_ back to the pain Eliot had known his whole life.

The train called to him.

He looked back. One last time.

_Quentin—_

_Gone, I’m gone._

_I’m already gone._

The wind had howled at the door all night, like it was desperate for attention. It felt like it was screaming at Quentin, asking him to notice what was wrong. Perhaps it was—perhaps the wind knew what was coming, had the foresight the rest of us do not. Perhaps it was asking Quentin to prevent what was to come.

Destiny is not written in stone, though it’s hard to change.

The way the nights were long and the sun was fleeting wore on Quentin. Summers were easier for so many reasons, and the cold was not a friend when sadness found him, curled in bed like he didn’t know how to stand.

The previous night’s storm had been bad, one of the winter’s worst. And Eliot hadn’t come home.

Quentin needed to find him—he managed to drag himself out of bed, drag himself out the door. It was difficult, the gravity of the darkness fighting against him every inch.

The air was cold and the wind didn’t help. There was no gentle breeze, just biting frost.

Quentin’s heart was tugging towards something—he followed the feeling, imagining that Eliot was on the other end of it. The string connecting them was almost visible in the slight morning light.

As he walked, into the trees, near where the empty, barren clearing was, he couldn’t see any signs of life. The world was empty.

Eliot hadn’t come home.

“Eliot?” Quentin called, confused. Afraid. “El?”

His voice didn’t echo so much as vanish into the air. Like truly nothing was there to respond to him, not his love, not the flowers, not the trees. Quentin had never felt quite so small, and quite so wholly alone. 

The wind drifted through the trees, bringing a chill with it. And bringing a blonde girl with electrically blue eyes.

“He’s not here,” she said, her voice cold.

Quentin glanced back at her.

“Where is he?”

She smiled, a little pity in it. “Oh. You don’t know.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, obviously, that’s why I’m asking,” he said dryly.

The girl walked towards him slowly, and he thought he saw a blue flame flicker on her cheek. She tilted her head, regarding him.

“What if I told you he’s gone?”

Quentin’s heart beat faster with the thought. “Gone?” he said, his voice bordering on demanding. “What do you mean gone?”

She spread her hands. “Gone. The permanent kind. Six feet under, that sort of thing. Don’t you get it? He’s dead, magician.”

Quentin could feel his legs buckle underneath him and he pressed his palm into a tree to steady himself, the bark digging into his skin.

“No,” he breathed, shock and anguish in the syllable. “Fuck. No. It’s not possible.”

“You know,” the girl said, circling him. “There’s a way to save him. If you truly want to.”

Quentin’s gaze snapped to her, his heart already reaching out to cling to that hope.

“What? How? Who are you?”

“How far would you go for him?” she asked, curiously.

Quentin stared at her hard. “As far as I need to.”

“Hm. Well, it’s a start.” She stepped back, a near-genuine smile on her face. “I’m Alice. I can help you get there—you’ll have to take the long way down.”

“Anything,” Quentin said without hesitation.

_Through the underground, under cover of night_

_Laying low, staying out of sight_

_You keep on walking and you don’t look back_

He followed the railroad track in the dead of night, never looking back. It was hard to follow the tracks in the dark, but Quentin kept going. Cold determination kept his heart beating hard against his ribs.

He was going to save Eliot. Or he was going to die trying.

_Wait for me._

“Who do you think you are?” Margo whispered. “You really think _you_ can do this? _You?_ Haven’t people suffered enough for your generosity and heroics? Let him go.”

Quentin felt sweat on the back of his neck in spite of the cold. He felt so small as he walked, like each stride was inches. He felt heavy, like every step took all his strength. Fear clenched at his heart— _Eliot, gone, gone, gone._

It was worth it, it was all worth it to save Eliot. He could bring Eliot back, it could be done—

And he’d be better this time. More realistic, more attentive, kinder. Braver, softer, _something._ He’d be better, _better,_ and they’d be happy and El would be _alive._

It was all he wanted. It was all he cared about.

_Wait for me._

He couldn’t be too late, it wasn’t an option. He needed to get there. He needed to have hope, it needed to be possible—

Eliot couldn’t be gone forever.

_I’m coming for you, El. I’m coming._

“Where do you think you’re going?” Kady asked. She circled him as he walked. “People don’t come _back_ from down there. Cut your losses.”

Every step into the darkness was worth it.

The tracks were long and twisting, curling down and down and down. Quentin’s legs ached and he was straining his eyes to see the feet in front of him. Every step echoed against the stone walls of the tunnel. He couldn’t hear anything but his heartbeat and the echoes.

_Wait for me, I’m coming._

“You’re alone, Quentin,” Fen said to him. “How can you manage this on your own? Eliot didn’t make you happy enough before, why should now be any different? This isn’t going to change anything—you’re never going to feel okay.”

_It’s for Eliot, it’s for Eliot, it’s for Eliot._

Quentin would walk to the ends of the Earth for Eliot. And he would walk all the way back. His aching feet and his aching heart didn’t matter. This was Eliot’s life.

He had to envision what the world could be—he couldn’t just accept what it was. Things could always be better. It was always possible.

He _had_ to believe that.

Even through the sadness, even through the darkness.

He’d believe.

King Penny led Eliot into a colorless room with a large wooden desk.

“My office,” he informed him, sitting down.

Eliot hesitated for a moment. He looked back at the door—once, twice. His mind lingered on Quentin—on his bright eyes, on his smile. On the way he could put things back together, make them remember what they used to be.

On his magic tricks, on playing cards and flowers.

“Please, take a seat.”

Eliot did.

Penny smiled a bland, businesslike smile as he leaned forward. “We have some paperwork to go over.”

A lot can happen behind closed doors.


	6. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter--we're in the intermission. Next chapter will be up soon.

VI. ** _Intermission_**

Alice pauses, her eyes growing distant.

“Perhaps there was a moment—” she starts.

She hesitates, frowning slightly. The wind circles her like it knows her well.

“Perhaps there was a moment,” she says again, softer, slower. Her words sound carefully chosen. “Perhaps something could have been done. There was no one single thing that brought dear Quentin and Eliot to their fates. They—well. They’re human. It is a human thing, what happened.”

She smiles, a little sadly. You notice the way her eyes go just a little bit glassy as she stares off into the distance.

“You know the story. Don’t you?” She sighs. “It wasn’t a lack of love. Or a lack of heart. It wasn’t a lack of passion, or kindness, or drive.”

Alice doesn’t seem like she’s speaking to you anymore. She seems like she’s telling this to herself, like there’s something in her own words that she needs to hear.

“No, Quentin and Eliot had all those things in spades.” She shakes her head, soft blonde hair falling from behind her ears. “They had all those things and more. Sometimes it’s not enough to deserve a happy ending. In the world of gods and men, stories don’t always end the ways we’d like them to.”

It’s a sad song, after all. It’s a tragedy. You knew this when you started listening.

Alice looks up, seeming to notice you again. Back to that sad smile and gentle look. Unlike the other-worldly blue glare that had been there before. It’s a human story, and she looks as human as ever.

“Do you want to keep going?”


	7. Flowers bloom, until they rot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're in Act 2.   
> I don't think I have to tell you what that means.

VII. **_Flowers bloom, until they rot_**

When King Penny was in his office, Lady Julia slipped into the Library.

The _gift_ he’d so thoughtfully created for her.

The gift he’d thrown at her like she should be grateful. The gift that seemed to have sucked the personality from him, the gift that sucked the color from their world and their love.

Grays, nothing but grays—did he really think she’d like this? This hoarding of knowledge, this stifling of color and creativity. This air of control, this dust and quiet. There was no freedom here. No heart.

Nothing of the man Lady Julia had fallen in love with. Where had Penny gone? She might even miss him.

Lady Julia was not one for meaningless bureaucracy and rules. She wanted sunlight, she wanted fresh air, she wanted flowers—Goddess of Spring, Our Lady of the Tree, how could Penny think she’d want _this?_

Didn’t he know her at all?

There was no sky here.

For a place filled with the souls of the dead, it was so soulless.

Julia wandered among the high shelves, the tight spaces between. She kept coming across the poor dead souls who had signed the agreement. Their eyes were glazed and empty. Each motion seemed automatic as they shelved books without glancing at any of the words.

She tried to get their attention, tried to remind them what the world was like. What it _could_ be. She made a few flowers sprout from the wood of the shelves. No one spared a glance. No one turned a head. She tried to summon the wind, bring some movement into the still dust in the air.

“Don’t you want to see the stars? Don’t you want to smell the rain?”

But her voice was swallowed by that dust in the air. The words didn’t make it across the space, and the lost souls stayed lost, and the lonely Queen stayed lonely.

“Can’t anyone hear me?” Julia murmured.

She missed the sky.

“I’m pleased to inform you that the paperwork has gone through,” a blonde woman with cat eye glasses and a plastered-on smile told him. “You start your service today.”

“Service?” Eliot repeated.

He looked around. This wasn’t…

_Wasn’t what?_ he wondered. What had he wanted here anyway?

He didn’t feel hungry anymore. He didn’t feel cold anymore.

Wasn’t that the deal?

He didn’t _feel_.

“You’ll start by reshelving the books,” the woman went on. Her voice was melodic and strained, as constructed as her smile. Everything about her seemed fabricated, in a way that felt like it could snap and she’d fall like a puppet with no strings.

“I don’t understand,” Eliot tried to say.

Before he could get the words out, he was being shackled to a cart of books, metal against his wrists.

“I do apologize, but everyone has to start like this,” the woman said.

She didn’t _seem_ particularly sorry. She didn’t seem… anything, not genuinely.

“But King Penny—” Eliot started to protest. What _had_ he been promised? What had he agreed to? Peace, maybe. Quiet comfort. The removal of the suffering that life brought.

But what was the exchange? Eliot hadn’t examined the contract. Too hungry, too afraid, he’d eagerly taken the opportunity to flee. He wanted to be free of the overwhelming _everything_ of existence.

There was so much he was uncertain of.

_Lifeless_ was the word that kept coming to mind as Eliot glanced around this place. It made sense—lifeless was what he’d signed up for. Less of life. Less of all of it.

He thought…

He thought it would feel more _free,_ he supposed.

“What did you expect?” Fen said, kindly. Gently. She put a comforting hand on Eliot’s arm. “This is what you wanted. You’ll never be hungry or cold again. Isn’t it worth it?”

Eliot looked down at the shackles.

What had he _done?_

“I have to go back,” he murmured to himself.

“Baby,” Margo said, with something near sympathy, something near amusement, “there’s no coming back from this one.”

“There _has_ to be a way to go back,” Eliot said, pulling his wrists against the metal.

“Why? You’re safe here,” Fen cooed. “Safe from all you’ve suffered. Everything you’d been through. Safe from life.”

“What did I _do?_ Quentin—”

“You made your bed,” Kady told him. “Now lie in it.”

_Dreams are sweet, until they’re not._

The Library of the Underworld was a dark, dreary place. It wasn’t just that it was a prison for lost souls. It was the rules stifling everyone, the inescapable rules—you broke one each time you took a wrong turn, in this labyrinth of a place.

Eliot wasn’t sure what he’d envisioned when he’d chosen this path.

It wasn’t this.

This place was lifeless, empty—monotonous, mind-numbing work. Eliot could feel pieces of himself falling away, peeling like paint, melting like ice and evaporating. He didn’t know how much would be left after much more of _this._ Shelving books and moving things and walking up and down colorless aisles and forgetting, forgetting, forgetting. This place, filled to the brim with knowledge, yet somehow completely mindless. Devoid of meaning.

There was no night, no day. No breath, no water, no sleep. Seconds and minutes and decades bled together—time meant nothing here.

Eliot had wanted sleep; he had wanted freedom.

This hell was a kind he’d never imagined before.

Then again—what had he ever imagined?

It was getting harder to visualize the world he’d lived in before. It was getting more difficult to believe he’d ever been alive, alive and breathing and _living,_ it was getting difficult to remember what it had been like to feel the sun on his skin.

There were things he knew he’d forgotten—

The faces of his siblings he’d left so long ago. The voices of his parents when he’d said goodbye. What the sunset looked like, colors in the clouds.

He remembered—

He remembered the smell of flowers. The smell of summer, the smell of peaches.

_What a beautiful world, what a beautiful sight—_

It was so distant, that life.

Flowers bloomed and the sky glowed. Nothing like this place at all.

Eliot had chosen the path he walked on.

Flowers…

He remembered something—

Someone—

Someone—

Someone beautiful, in the meadow, just there beside him, in some distant, inaccessible vision.

Why had he left that dream? Where was he now?

Was anybody listening?

_Come and find me._

_Please._


	8. I called your name before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation for anything.

VIII. **_I called your name before_**

Quentin got to the Library, and it all felt so unreal.

The world felt tilted and colorless. He’d never seen a place like this before.

He found it hard to imagine Eliot, kind, beautiful Eliot, in this dreary place. Eliot made him think of starlight and peaches and music—nothing like this place at all. He supposed it made sense that it felt so dead. It was, after all.

He slunk through, walking past shelves and shelves and shelves of books.

There were workers around, moving methodically and soullessly. Quentin moved past them without difficulty. They didn’t even seem to see him. His heart cracked a little at the sight of them—

Colorless, so empty.

He wondered if they knew who they were anymore. He wondered if anyone had tried to come for them.

He felt a little lost, really, hands empty.

He wanted to help these people, too, but he wouldn’t have had any idea where to start. So he just let himself hurt for them as he searched. The pain only made him more desperate to find Eliot, to get him out of this place.

It was so cold.

It felt like years until he saw a familiar figure, standing just near the shadows.

“Eliot,” Quentin breathed, relief making his skin come alive again.

Eliot turned, his eyes widening. The cold, dusty air felt like it faded away from his skin. Clarity, a moment of perfect clarity in this stifling place—

He knew where he was. He knew _who_ he was. One moment of hearing Quentin’s voice, and his whole life flooded back into him. Every perfect moment in the sun, every painful bitter word in the dark of winter. Every kiss and every peach and every playing card.

“It’s you,” he said simply, because what else could he say? It was the truth. _It’s you, it’s you, it’s you—you’re the one from my dreams, from my faded memories—it’s you._

Quentin’s face broke out in a smile, reaching the corners of his eyes like it did in the summertime, warming the world. “It’s me,” he replied. _It’s me, it’s me, it’s me—of course it’s me, of course I came for you, how could I not? My world is not the same without you._

“Q,” Eliot said. His voice trembled.

Quentin rushed over, throwing his arms around Eliot, holding him tightly, feeling a joy strong enough to match the anguish of hearing that Eliot was gone in the first place. There was endless depth in the emotion—Quentin could drown in it.

“Quentin, Quentin, how did you get here?” Eliot murmured, holding him just as close, his relief dampened by the pit of fear he felt— _what was Quentin doing here?_

“I came for you,” Quentin said. He pulled back, eyes wide and warm and alive. “Come home with me.”

“How did you _get_ here?” Eliot repeated. Not wanting to ask the question. Not wanting to speak it into existence. _Are you dead, too?_ “On the train?”

Eliot’s voice was tight, quiet and urgent.

Quentin shook his head. “I walked.”

A whisper of fondness curled in Eliot’s chest. Only Quentin—only Quentin could say he walked to the underworld as though it were that simple.

“How did you get _in?”_

A grin grew on Quentin’s face and the entire room got brighter. “Magicians can pick locks,” he said simply, glancing down to the shackles on Eliot’s wrist.

The warmth of the moment broke in Eliot’s chest.

_No, no, no—_ Quentin didn’t understand. Eliot couldn’t escape this. Not ever—it was over for him, and if Quentin stayed another moment—

It might be over for him, too.

Eliot stepped back suddenly, shaking his head helplessly. “Q, you don’t—I can’t—”

“Come home with me,” Quentin repeated, soft as ever. He reached out a gentle hand, offering it like he was offering the world.

“You have to go.”

“Not without you.”

Eliot glanced around furtively. This place—it would suck you dry, take your breath, take your blood. It would eat away at your memories, at your soul, until you were unrecognizable. Until you were empty. This place—it was a prison by design.

A man like Quentin Coldwater did not belong in a place like this.

“Please,” Eliot said, lowering his voice. “You _have_ to go. Before—”

“Eliot—” Quentin took a step forward, brow furrowed. He put his hand on Eliot’s forearm. “I came to find you.”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“It doesn’t matter—” And to Quentin, it didn’t, it truly didn’t. He stepped closer again. “We can find our way back. Together.”

Eliot, helplessly, hopelessly, shook his head. “I wish—”

“You _can._ Please, Eliot—come home with me.”

Quentin furrowed his brow, his eyes on Eliot’s face. How could Eliot possibly expect him to _leave_ him here? He would never be able to live with himself if he abandoned Eliot in this place. It wasn’t even an option to him. 

Eliot knew it wasn’t that simple.

He’d made a choice. He had to die with that.

Before Quentin could say another word, it happened.

It was a sound like something clattering to the ground. It echoed off the walls, in this quiet place.

“This the guy? The _magician,_ ” King Penny called, stalking up to them with his head held high. “Gotta say, he doesn’t look like much.”

Quentin moved to stand in front of Eliot, as though the gesture of bravery could ever be enough.

Penny might’ve laughed. As it was, there was a bare, cold smile playing about his lips.

“You’re in the wrong place, kid. Better head home.”

“Not without Eliot.” _Never without Eliot._

“Quentin?”

Lady Julia stepped forward beside the king, her eyes wide and curious. “Penny—Penny, I know this boy,” she said softly.

The king didn’t show any sign that he heard her.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Eliot touched Quentin’s arm gently. “You should go,” he said.

Quentin glanced back at him, a stab of disbelief in his heart. He _couldn’t._

“Please,” Eliot said.

“Listen to him,” Penny said, stepping forward. “You’re on the wrong side of the wall here. Go back.”

“No! No.”

Quentin’s voice echoed off the walls.

Penny raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not going back alone—I came for Eliot, I’m not leaving him here.”

“Q, please—”

“Even _if_ he wanted to follow you,” Penny said harshly, looking Quentin up and down with a sneer, “there’s a reason he’s here, man. There’s a reason he’s got those chains. And let me tell you—I don’t bring anyone here who doesn’t want to come.”

Quentin blinked, confused. The words weren’t making sense to him, like they were in another language, like it was some kind of riddle. He wasn’t sure how to understand what Penny was saying. Or maybe he was, and he just didn’t want to hear it.

Penny smiled cruelly. “Didn’t you know, magician? I didn’t make him leave you.”

“El?” Quentin said, not taking his eyes off of Penny.

His voice sounded so small. Eliot felt a creeping shame on the surface of his skin.

“Quentin, I—”

“He signed the papers himself,” King Penny said.

The words hung heavy in the air.

Quentin finally turned to look at Eliot.

Eliot’s heart broke without beating at the look in Quentin’s eyes.

“Eliot,” Quentin said, his voice breaking. “You didn’t.”

Eliot dropped his gaze. He found he couldn’t meet Quentin’s eyes. “I did.”


	9. If it's true what they say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I listen to the Hadestown cast album, and I remember how the story ends.

IX. ** _If_ _it’s true what they say_**

“Well, there you have it,” King Penny said. “Now _go.”_

“Eliot—” Quentin started. He took a step towards Eliot, but it already seemed like Eliot was being pulled back, fading into the Underworld Library again. Eliot wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

The color was being sapped from everything Quentin could see.

How could this be happening?

He’d come all this way—

“El—” He could hear his own heartbreak in his voice. His own shattered hope, his own anguish.

_I’m sorry,_ he heard Eliot’s voice say, but it was distant. Faded. Colorless. Like the sound wasn’t real, it was the ghost of an apology that Quentin wanted to hear.

“Kid, you came a long way for nothing,” Penny’s harsh voice cut through the stifling dust and the desperation.

Penny stepped forward, menacingly, and expressionless workers flanked him, getting between Quentin and Eliot. The librarians, with tight expressions and bland colored clothing, approached him, gripping his arms and pulling him away.

“Get out,” Penny said. “Go _home.”_

“Penny…” Julia started, a note of disappointment in her voice.

But Penny turned away from her. Not hearing what she was trying to say. Refusing to listen.

Quentin tried to pull away from the hands the dragged him away, try to wrench himself out of their bruising grasps. He only got more restrained, more pulled away from…

“Wait—” he said, desperately, desperately, desperately.

He needed to save Eliot. He _couldn’t_ leave without Eliot. It wasn’t an option—no version of events he could tolerate ended with him walking out of this place alone.

The Fates gathered near him, sensing the fallout.

They watched for a moment as he tried, as he got tired, as he seemed closer and closer to collapsing into failure. As his drive seemed to wane like the moon, like the tide. They could feel how loss was climbing up his spine, threatening to pull him down. 

“Why bother, kid?” Kady said, circling, circling. “Why the struggle?”

“Give it up,” Margo piped in. “Eliot made his choice. Like he’d ever follow _you.”_

“You’re gonna lose,” Fen said, a gentle hand on Quentin’s arm. “Just go quietly—it’s not worth the trouble.”

“No— _no,”_ Quentin insisted to himself, under his breath. “I can’t just—I can’t—I can’t—”

His voice kept getting softer, every word more difficult to get off his tongue. 

“You tried. You failed. Go home.” Kady’s voice was kind underneath the harsh tone. Almost like she pitied him. “This is the way the story ends.”

“Don’t waste your breath on something you can’t do,” Margo said.

Quentin closed his eyes tightly. His own doubt was clutching at his heart. If it was true… If Eliot had chosen to leave… If Eliot had _wanted_ to leave… If Eliot had signed those papers, if he’d signed his life away…

When Eliot had a choice, he hadn’t chosen Quentin.

So why would he come back? Why would he follow Quentin home?

If it was true…

If it was true…

“There’s no use fighting,” Margo said.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Kady continued.

“You’re bound to lose,” Fen whispered, almost kindly. Almost concerned. Like she truly and honestly wanted only the best for Quentin. “There’s no escaping it. Let it end here. It’ll hurt less.”

And the voices were reaching Quentin’s soul.

It was bad enough that his own darkness found him in the farthest corners of his mind, no matter how hard he ran. It was bad enough that it, too, was whispering to him that giving up was the best outcome. The safest path, the least painful way to get through.

_Accept defeat, accept loneliness, it’ll hurt too much to try and try and try—_

It was bad enough that Quentin’s faith was small and fragile and…

Quentin stopped trying to pull away from the gray figures that dragged him back towards the door. Back towards the long, empty walk home. As though they could sense his surrender, they released his arms.

If it was true, if it was all true, that this was what the world was…

Dark and hopeless and colorless…

If it was all true, then Quentin might as well go home. Back to whatever half-life he might have without Eliot.

Quentin started to walk away, hanging his head because everything was too hard to carry. He started to turn back to the door, started to believe he was a fool for coming this far. He should’ve known. He should’ve known he’d fail.

And yet…

A stubborn spark.

Quentin hesitated, for a moment, to look at the faces of the workers. Those empty eyes, those slack expressions, those gray cheeks. He tried to picture them in the light of the day, in the warmth of the sun.

“Is this _really_ what the world is?” Quentin asked, barely expecting to be heard at all. “Just… dark, and mean, and pointless? No magic left?”

There was a stillness to the air, a tension in the dust motes that started to swirl around them.

“Am I supposed to accept that? What kind of _system_ is that?” He felt like his voice was cracking, breaking to pieces on each word. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, what certainty was curling around his heart and stopping him from going towards the train tracks, to return home, defeated and alone.

All he knew, really, was this sense of absolute _wrongness_ that he felt.

How was he supposed to leave? How was he supposed to give up?

How was he supposed to keep trying?

He let out a groan of frustration, dragging his hands down his face. He half-laughed, the desperation and determination in equal parts bubbling up inside of him. The gray-faced librarians were looking at him now with something that might almost be recognition.

Quentin, in a moment of hope, felt like they might be listening to him. Like they might, in some detached way, hear what he needed to say. Despite their glassy eyes.

Was this what Eliot was supposed to become? And were these people completely lost from who they might’ve been once, in another life?

And was Quentin supposed to walk away without doing everything he could?

“No,” Quentin said. He closed his eyes; he shook his head. “ _No.”_

“No?” Margo echoed, her tone questioning. She tilted her head, leaning towards him with a curious smile.

“I _refuse_ to believe it,” Quentin said. He turned, a little frantically, staring up at the imposing wall behind him, the heavy door. “This can’t be beyond repair.”

A mender and a magician, Quentin was, at his heart, someone who saw broken things and helped them remember what they once were. He was the kind of man who wanted, in the depths of his soul, to believe in the good of the world. To believe that there was nothing someone couldn’t come back from. No matter how shattered, no matter how lost.

He believed in hope. He believed in magic.

“You know what, if it’s true, if this is all there is… I might as well leave. I might as well give up.” Quentin lifted his chin, looking back in the direction where Eliot was. Where Penny was. “But, what, am I just supposed to believe nothing can be done? It’s too late, that’s _it?_ Fuck that.”

The workers, so long in the gray and the quiet, were starting to feel themselves get grasped by the passion, by the stubborn faith. Drawn away from the monotonous work, the empty days, drawn away from the library…

Towards this stubborn, brave man, who believed in a world better than they imagined.

“Who are they to decide it’s too late? Who gets to say when things can’t be fixed anymore? Are we just supposed to _take_ it, take whatever they say and give up? Just like that?” Quentin met the eyes of the crowd. Confidence shaken, but stubborn optimism in this fire in his chest. “We get to decide what we think is hopeless. We decide whether to give up. And I’m not letting this go.”

He couldn’t see how he’d captivated his audience. But he had. They were starting to remember what warmth felt like. They were starting to remember how it felt to stand tall, straightened spines and beating hearts.

Quentin glared into the distance, not registering fully the entranced eyes that were on him. “You know what? We’re stronger than we know. We’re stronger than _they_ know.”

Quentin, for his part, had spent enough time around gods to know this:

They were not infallible. They were not all powerful.

And they could not control him.

In the midst of his contagious, reckless hope, the color seemed to drift back in.

A little way away, Lady Julia was listening, too. As entranced by the magic as the workers.

She had been listening to Quentin’s shaken faith, to the darkness creeping back in, to the stubborn faith he’d held tight to.

“Penny,” she said, her voice quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Getting a drink,” he said flatly. He started to walk away from her.

“Penny,” she said again.

He paused.

The air between them was heavy and full of all the years of strained words and lost gestures. Full of all they had once been, all they might never be able to be again.

“They have the kind of love you and I once had,” Julia said, a sadness in her soft tone.

Penny stiffened, barely. The words felt cold in the air around him.

“They’re just two humans,” Penny said dismissively. As though that were the end of it.

Julia sighed, something near disappointment. “No,” she said. Tired. Drained of any fight. “They’re not.”

“They mean nothing.”

Julia started to walk towards Penny, trying to bridge the cavernous divide between them. She couldn’t find a foothold. It had been too long since they’d, really and truly and honestly, tried to find one another.

“Penny, my love,” Julia said. And he was, still, her love. In the years since they’d forgotten the song between them, she’d never stopped loving him. They hadn’t stopped loving each other, however crooked and complicated.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t move. He remembered what it felt like, to love without caution, to love without condition, like those two humans who were being torn apart by his own decisions.

Julia looked out towards the edge of the Library, where she could still feel Quentin.

“He’ll die not giving up,” Julia murmured, her heart heavy with sympathy. “Can’t you feel his heart?”

If Penny was being honest, he could. He could feel the heart of that man, in the distance. He could feel the love, the hope, the desperation.

“No,” he said.

“How long? How long do you need to do this?” Julia moved in front of him, studying his serious, darkened face. “Penny…”

“As long as I’m king,” Penny said, “I can’t just let humans go anytime they ask. There are rules. Contracts. I built this place; I need to run it.”

Julia could’ve laughed, if she didn’t feel so heartbroken.

“What does that boy care about the laws of your Library? What does he care for the logic of kings?”

King Penny, conflicted and filled with frustration, turned away from her.

“Penny—can’t you feel it? He loves this man—” Julia took a step closer to him. “Let them go.”

“Eliot Waugh sold his soul to the Library,” Penny said, his voice flat.

Julia shook her head sadly. She sighed, tilting her head and looking at him with soft eyes. “Penny, my love. The deal he made is with you. You have the power to change it.”

Finally, he met her eyes. They were soft and regretful.

“I’m asking you,” she said, “as your wife, as your queen… Let them go. Don’t make this rule of yours, this one contract, be the thing that makes the bridge too hard to build. Don’t let this be the hill you choose to make your home, because I can’t climb it.”

“Is that an ultimatum, my queen?”

“It’s a request.” Julia took on more step towards him, and they were close enough to touch again. “I didn’t ask you for the Library. I’m asking you for this.”

Penny studied Julia’s face. For a moment, he felt as though they were no longer King and Queen of the Underworld. No longer two immortal gods, with too much time warping all of their feelings and weighing down their hearts.

For a moment, Penny was just a man. Who loved the woman in front of him.

And the Fates circled.

“So what are you going to do?” Fen murmured to him.


	10. Wait for me, I'm coming too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew what you were getting into.

X. **_Wait for me, I’m coming too_**

Moments converge on each other sometimes. Each person, each player in the moment knows what it means to them, and these individual meanings pile on top on one another until the world has to hold its breath for the outcome. The moments converge, the meanings tangle.

The Library was a cold and dusty place, stifling in its grayness. But for one short night, it came alive with the hope and wonder and possibilities. All at once, everyone was seeing what the world could be. All at once, the way the world was didn’t stop them from imagining and believing.

The actors in this play, the character in this tragedy, they all had their moments here on this night.

Quentin, being dragged away and sent home and told hope was lost, refused to back down. He refused to believe that it was over, that it was _true_ that hope was lost. He refused to come all this way only to give up before pouring his entire heart into it.

God and goddess of the Underworld, they were at a standstill. They had to wait to see who would blink first. Neither one of them knew, truly, what was at stake—how could they? Immortal beings, understanding that this night was important without seeing that human thing at the heart of it. The dear and tender human thing, the mending of a minor break. They didn’t see it.

But they heard Quentin, as much as the lost souls heard him. The Underworld held its breath with the world, hanging onto the passion and drive, the raw humanity of someone who would walk into the Underworld to save the person they loved.

And Eliot…

Eliot could hear him, too. He could hear the bravery and the determination. He could hear that Quentin wasn’t going to give up on him. The chains on him all at once felt paper thin. Quentin’s hope was contagious.

And Alice, who’d led Quentin to the Underworld to begin with, watched the night play out. The way she knew it would.

Let me set the scene for you. A poor boy, armed with stubborn hope, standing alone in front of beings with power he neither understands nor cares for. It doesn’t matter to him, this kind young man, that he is standing against a King. He would have stood against a mountain, an ocean, the sun. He would’ve stood against any power that be that held his love from him.

All he knew was that there had to be a chance for him. There had to be the possibility of a light at the end of the dark here.

For once, the planets and people revolved around this man alone. It mattered more than he knew, because he could make people believe in magic. And at a certain point, don’t we all want to believe in magic? Don’t we all want to grasp at the possibility of something beautiful? And don’t we all want the story to end happily?

Penny, for his part, was bound to his throne.

Julia looked at him with kindness and love in her eyes like he hadn’t seen since he’d first met her in her mother’s garden. She’d asked for something small, in a lot of ways. She’d asked for him to meet her where she stood, she’d asked for him to see what she saw.

“If you let them go now—” Kady whispered to him.

“Will you ever really be a king again?” Margo finished. “Once you give in once, how can you make them believe in your power?”

“You’re setting a precedent,” Kady said. “Be careful.”

“Julia’s waiting for your answer,” Fen added, in a smaller, kinder tone.

_Enough,_ Penny thought to himself. _ENOUGH._

He may not rule the skies and the seas, but he ruled this. The Underworld was _his;_ he was the King, and the dead belonged to him. Regardless of how they got there.

_Let them go—_

Julia never asked him for anything.

She had asked him for this.

And here Quentin was, not giving up. Not leaving like he’d been ordered to. The librarians had released his arms and he’d marched back like he wasn’t afraid of anything. And Eliot had drifted back, the shackles on his wrist seeming more like an illusion by the moment.

Penny had to make a decision.

_Let them go—_

“Hand him the power, King Penny,” Kady whispered in his ear. “He won’t know what to do with it.”

“Faith can be shaken easier than it can be built,” Fen added.

“Word to the wise?” Margo said. “Let men try, and they’ll fail. You don’t have to do a thing.”

“You’ll appease Julia,” Kady said. Circling.

“She’ll forgive you,” Fen went on.

“But you won’t have to give up anything.” 

_So what’ll it be, King Penny? What are you going to do?_

_Let them go._

But not without one final trial.

It was Julia who unlocked the shackles from Eliot’s wrists, Julia who smiled kindly and told them they could go home. Julia who put a palm to Quentin’s face before drifting back as Eliot went to him.

Eliot threw his arms around Quentin, pulling him close with every part of him that felt alive again.

“Take me _home,”_ Eliot said, softly, into Quentin’s soft hair.

Quentin was the one who pulled back first, brown eyes wide with an unfamiliar tension.

“It’s a long road. It’s a long walk. Back into the cold and dark.” Quentin studied Eliot’s face, his heart beating fast. “Are you sure you want to go?”

Eliot took Quentin’s hands, love overflowing. “I’ll walk beside you the whole way. It won’t be cold or dark if we’re together.”

Quentin’s hands twitched away from Eliot’s, a strange uncertainty clutching at him. “I can’t give you what you need. No money. No firewood. I can’t promise you anything.”

“So don’t,” Eliot replied. “Don’t make any promises. I don’t need them.”

“Eliot,” Quentin said softly, a note of quiet desperation in his tone. Like he was asking Eliot to hear the words he couldn’t say.

“Take me home with you,” Eliot said.

“It’ll be the same home you left,” Quentin replied.

“And we’ll be there together.”

Quentin didn’t know how to say—

_But it’ll still be me, won’t it? It’ll still be me, it’ll still be us, and you ran away from that once._

It was a strange thing, to come this far, reach the moment where the happy ending seemed inevitable, and realize that none of your doubts had gone anywhere. They were alive and well in the corners of Quentin’s heart, now that the fight in his chest had burnt out with the last shred of real resistance he’d run into.

The obstacles were gone. The only barrier left was himself.

And how could he hold onto hope enough for that last, crucial issue? That final canyon he had to cross?

When he’d bested gods and won the heart of his beloved back, he was still, in the end, himself.

He was left with the person he’d always been.

But he took Eliot’s hand, tightening his grip. Keeping his eyes on Eliot’s for fear of losing this.

If he just had Eliot’s hand, Eliot’s gaze, _Eliot,_ to anchor him…

He could walk to hell and back again. As longer as he had the promise of someone walking beside him, stride matching stride. As long as they could lace their fingers together, as long as Quentin could look up into Eliot’s gold-green eyes when the darkness curled around his wrists and tipped the scales of his unsteady heart.

Alice approached, a kind but hesitant look in her eyes.

“You’re free to go,” she said. “The door’s unlocked now. You can walk back.”

Eliot let out a sigh of relief, almost laughing through the tears that had begun to spring into his eyes. He could be saved from the fate he’d nearly locked himself into—he could be free again.

Quentin felt a sense of dread at the hesitance in Alice’s gaze. Eliot seemed to be taking the hope that was being offered, but—

“What is it?” Quentin asked, afraid of the answer.

Alice took a breath. “He’s letting you go. But not side by side. Eliot will have to follow you.” She looked into Quentin’s eyes meaningfully. “And you can’t check to see if he’s there. If you turn around, he’ll be sent back to the Library and you will never get another chance.”

A sharp feeling of helplessness made Quentin’s heart tighten. “Why?”

“One final trial, magician.”

Eliot turned, cupping the side of Quentin’s neck with one hand. He gazed into Quentin’s eyes, desperately, with every ounce of hope and apologies he could. “You’re braver than anyone I know, Q. We can do this.”

Quentin was captured by the fervency in Eliot’s tone, his gaze caught.

“Alice,” Quentin said, his voice full of apprehension.

“Yes?” she replied.

“It’s not a trick?” He looked a little afraid, like taking his eyes off Eliot was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

Alice smiled kindly. “No. It’s a test.”

Alice knew—the hardest thing to overcome was not Penny’s will. Gaining Julia’s favor was not the challenge. It was the voice inside one’s own mind, the voice that chided and judged and doubted. The path they walked now was the last step.

And it seemed like the easiest. There would be no roadblock. No chains. No gods or goddesses in their way, no magic trick to perform, no song to sing. All they had to do was walk.

All they had to do was walk and _trust._

Quentin Coldwater was a great many things. A repair man, a magician—brown-eyed boy with his heart on his sleeve. He loved things honestly and openly. He loved things with no secrecy. Anyone who spoke to him could tell—he was the kind of man who could make you believe there was good in the world.

He made Eliot believe. He made Julia believe.

But he was also the kind of man who didn’t see the value in himself.

Maybe there was a part of him that believed no one would ever follow him—not even out of hell.

So here was the test:

Could Quentin trust and believe enough, that Eliot loved him with the same fierce honesty with which he loved Eliot? Could he trust that Penny would stay true to his word? Could he trust that every step he took was not a waste?

As Alice looked at the determination in Quentin’s face, the love and the anguish and the certainty, the certainty even through the fear—

She felt as though there was a way for them to reach the world again.

Even she, in all her years of watching humans, in all her years as goddess and monster and magician—

Even she believed.

And now, all there was left to do was walk through the door, walk along those same railroad tracks. Out of the Library, out of the Underworld. Back towards the light.

“Penny,” Julia said, watching the Library door close behind the two men. “You let them go.”

Penny glanced at her, something distant in his gaze. “I let them try,” he amended.

Julia studied the closed door. She slipped her hand into Penny’s.

“Think they’ll make it?” she asked, softly. She did wonder how this story would end. She found herself hoping, wishing. Believing.

“I don’t know,” Penny replied. And it was the truth.

It was out of the hands of the gods now.

It was Quentin—good, kind, hopeful Quentin. And all Eliot had to do was follow him. It was the easiest thing that had ever been asked of him. He’d follow Quentin anywhere.

It had been a mistake. Listening to Penny, selling his soul to the Underworld. Allowing that moment of weakness, that moment of doubt to bring him to the place, to bring him to his own ruin… Eliot regretted it with everything in him. His second chance was like the first rays of sunshine breaking through any cold, hungry winter he’d experienced. He just wanted to go home—to be with Quentin again. And Quentin, _remarkable_ Quentin, had come to save him.

It was the most beautiful thing.

Eliot never could have imagined someone walking to hell and back for him.

And now, all he had to do was follow.

How could it be this easy? How could it be this simple?

_I’m coming, wait for me._

The moments were long and the distance felt endless, but they were getting there together.

If _anyone_ could do this, Quentin could.

Eliot believed.

They would make it through.

_I’m right here, Q._

_I’m right behind you._

Quentin had thought, in the back of his mind, despite everything, that he’d be able to feel Eliot’s soul behind him. How could he not? He was sure he’d hear the footsteps, he was sure he’d feel the warmth. He was sure he’d feel the way he always felt when Eliot was nearby.

All he felt was a prickling at the back of his neck, sensing emptiness and nothingness behind him.

Maybe Eliot didn’t want to follow him. It wasn’t like they’d been in the best place. Eliot had given up their life together—what if he didn’t want it back?

The steps Quentin took felt heavy. Every movement felt like he was trying to run through saltwater.

Was it enough? Was _he_ enough? Could he trust Penny?

Did Eliot _want_ him?

The railroad track was cold and dark, longer with every step. Eliot’s legs were weak, and the chill of the wind curled around him. But warm determination kept his heart beating hard against his ribs, and he didn’t so much glance over his shoulder at the path they were leaving behind.

He just had to follow. Step by step, stride by stride, he followed.

The soft, tender affection in his heart felt connected to Quentin by woven thread, their destiny intertwined and leading them home.

He loved Quentin. It was simple enough.

He’d been afraid before—afraid of that love, afraid of those promises. Afraid of the winter winds that howled against their rickety door.

And so he ran away, because the fear got to be too much to bear.

But now?

The fear felt more like a memory.

This was what was real—

He was following Quentin home.

He was going home.

_Wait for me, I’m coming with you. I’m coming, too._

_I’m just trying to see the world the way it could be. Not the way it is._

Quentin…

He was deluding himself, wasn’t he?

How could he _believe_ that this would work?

How could he be so naïve?

Who was he to believe that Eliot would follow him into the cold and dark again?

He was left with himself, he was left with the person he’d always be.

The only person walking beside him was _him._

He was alone; the walk felt endless. Had he been fooled, had he been foolish for ever believing? The railroad track felt longer than it had before. It felt…

It felt like he was walking back into darkness. Like there was no light at the end, like he was going nowhere.

Doubt was creeping up his leg like a vine, strangling his hope into the small and fragile thing it was. Small enough that its voice was weakened to a whisper. The embers don’t burn out, but they fade. The cold comes in.

He was alone. The fates weren’t even there to circle him. The only voice was his.

When you’re alone…

When you’re alone…

_You’re not alone, I’m right here, I’m coming with you._ Eliot’s hope felt unshakable. There was no winter wind, no hungry night, that could make him doubt each step he took. He was there, following the love of his life. The man who’d made him believe in the good of the world. They would make it together.

Eliot believed. Eliot _knew._

He felt as though he could hear their hearts beating together, the rhythm of it echoing against the stone walls that were guiding them home.

The darkest night would lead them into the spring. The darkest hour would lead them into the dawn.

And it was going to be beautiful.

_Can you hear me, Quentin? Can you feel my heart following you?_

Eliot knew well enough, that the world was cold and that the path was dark. But every step with Quentin made it brighter. And they were almost home.

_Are you listening?_

_I am right here, I’m following you._

_I’ll be here until the very end._

When you’re alone, it’s harder, to see the world the way it could be, the way it _should_ be. The way it is becomes an ever-present shadow over the dreams of something better.

And who was Quentin supposed to trust?

The god who’d taken Eliot in the first place, who’d had his hand sign his life away? Eliot, who’d signed those papers voluntarily? Alice, whose lips had curled in amusement in pitiable moments?

Was Quentin supposed to trust himself?

Was he supposed to carry himself home, step by step, believing there would come a moment where he would reach the sunlight and the magic of the summer would bring back those perfect, honey-sweet days?

When you’re alone…

When you’re alone…

When you’re alone, that voice of doubt, that voice that is your _own_ voice, gets louder in the silence.

There wasn’t even the sound of a breeze to give Quentin a moment to—

Here’s what happens when the last real spark of your belief burns out:

You turn around.

Quentin, as an impulse, steps away from the sunlight, steps away from this tale’s happy ending—

He turned around.

A sharp gasp cut through the air.

And the world stopped turning right then and there.

“No,” Quentin said, uselessly. Hopelessly. Helplessly.

_No._

Eliot was there, close enough to touch—

“Quentin—” Eliot said. His voice was heartbroken. The sound of it pierced Quentin to his core.

“It’s you.” Quentin could feel him there, now. He wondered how he could have ever believed there was no one behind him.

“It’s me,” Eliot replied. His lips twitched up in an almost-smile. His eyes softened, a kind of sad forgiveness in them.

“Eliot…”

Quentin reached for him—

Close enough to touch—

And then…

And then he was gone. With no flair or fanfare, Eliot was just _gone_.

Like he’d never been there at all.

Quentin fell to his knees.

What more was there to do?

He’d turned their story into a tragedy.

There was nothing left to say.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are.

XI. **_Epilogue_**

Alice lets a moment of silence stretch before she speaks.

“I did warn you,” she says, her voice gentle. “This is how the story ends. And what can we do?”

She clasps her hands in front of her, letting out a soft sigh. The blue of her eyes is as human as ever. It feels strange, now, that she’s so human.

“I know. We have to hope regardless. We always have to hope that things will end up better, that things will end beautifully. We have to believe that the world can be kind and that happy endings can be real.” She smiles sadly. “I learned that from a friend of mine.”

And it’s true, you think, that despite everything, you need to be able to hope that things will turn out for the better. Just this once, that the world can soften. You can see the world for what it could be, what it _should_ be, in spite of the way it’s proven to be.

Hope may be that small and fragile thing, strangled by the vines, but it is still there. Despite everything, it remains. As stubborn as anything else that came from Pandora’s box.

The quiet of the clearing is gentle. It’s not cold or harsh or empty. There is sunlight dappling through the leaves above. Despite the story, the world is soft around you. Gentle in its promise that this is not the only story there is.

“It’s a human thing, to lose hope,” Alice says. She looks down at her hands, into her empty palms. “Quentin did the best he could. He came so far. Even though it was a fatal mistake, we can’t fault him for that one moment. A split second in a lifetime…”

She sighs, and the wind sighs with her.

“This story is a tragedy, but we tell it again anyway. We tell it as many times as we need to, in as many ways. And we believe and hope every time. Don’t we?”

Her eyes flash that inhuman, burning blue. There is no cruelty, no amusement, in the strength of her gaze. Only stubborn determination.

“Next time, it will be better,” she says. “Next time, the story will end happily, and they’ll be together. Next time.”

It sounds like a promise, built on weakened hope.

And you believe her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me at official-mermaid on tumblr, if you like.


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